Echo

*8*

The fight that broke out inside the warehouse was a bloody affair, started by one of the more aggressive schizophrenics who decided the man next to him wanted to kill him. He pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and plunged it into his neighbor's stomach. The man's screams acted on the other inmates like a strident alarm, bringing some to his rescue and driving the rest to stampede in fear. Terry Dalton and old Tom snatched up pieces of lead piping and waded in to try to break up the affray but, like a fighting dog, the aggressor ignored the rain of blows that descended on his back and concentrated his energy on his victim. It ended, as so many of these fights ended, only when the man's stamina ran out and he retired, bruised and battered, to nurse his wounds.

Tom knelt beside the pathetic curled figure of the man who'd been stabbed. "It's poor old Walter," he said. "That bastard Denning's done for 'im good an' proper. If 'e ain't dead now, 'e soon will be."

Terry, who was shaking from head to toe in the aftermath of heightened adrenaline, flung his piece of pipe to the ground and stripped his coat from his thin body. "Put this over Walt and keep him warm. I'm calling the ambulance," he said. "And get yourselves ready for when the cops get here. This time I'm having Denning put away good and proper. He's too fucking dangerous."

"You can cut that kind of talk, son,'' said Tom, laying the coat over the body. "There's no one gonna thank you for dropping the Law on us like a ton of bricks. We'll shift Walt out and let the coppers think it 'appened in the street. The poor bastard's leaking like a stuck pig, so there'll be enough blood on the pavement to persuade 'em it were a gang of louts what did for 'im."

"No!" snapped Terry. "If you shift him you'll kill him quicker." He clenched his fists. "We have rights, Tom, same as everyone else. Walt's right is to be given his chance and our right is to get shot of a psycho."

"There ain't no rights in 'ell, son," said Tom dismissively, "never mind Billy filled your 'ead with claptrap about 'uman dignity. You bring the bizzies in 'ere, and it won't be just Denning for the 'igh jump. You think about what's in your pockets before you go calling in the filth." He touched a gnarled hand to the wounded man's face. "Walt's 'ad it, anyway, so it won't make no difference where 'e dies. We'll get shot of Denning ourselves, send 'im back on the streets where 'e'll likely die of cold before too long, anyway. 'E's tired 'isself out with this so 'e won't be no trouble."

He spoke with the authority of a man who expected to be obeyed for, despite Deacon's impression that Terry's quick mind allowed him to dominate the group, it was Tom who governed the warehouse, and there was no place in Tom's philosophy for sentiment. He'd seen too many derelicts die to care much about this one.

"NO!" roared the youngster, making for the doorway. "You move Walt, and you'll answer to me. We're not fucking savages, so we don't fucking behave like them. YOU HEAR ME!" He pushed his way furiously through the crowd around the door.

The phone rang in Deacon's flat as he emerged from a shower. "I need to speak to Michael Deacon," said an urgent voice.

"Speaking," he said, rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

"Do you remember that warehouse you came to a couple of weeks back?"

"Yes." He recognized his caller. "Are you Terry?"

"Yeah. Listen, are you still after information on Billy Blake?"

"I am."

"Then get yourself down to the warehouse in the next half hour and bring a camera with you. Can you do that?''

"Why the hurry?"

"Because the cops are on the way, and there's stuff in there that belonged to Billy. I reckon half an hour tops before the barricades go up. You coming?"

"I'll be there."

Terry Dalton, muffled inside an old work jacket and with a black knit hat pulled down over his shaven head, was leaning against the corner of the building, watching for Deacon's arrival. As Deacon drew into the curb in front of an empty police car, Terry pushed himself off the wall and went to meet him.

"There's been a stabbing," he said in a rush, as the older man got out, ' 'and it was me called the coppers. I reckoned it wouldn't do no harm to have a journalist in on the act. Tom reckons they're going to use this as an excuse to evict us and maybe charge us with other offenses but we've got rights, and I want them protected. In return, I'll give you everything I've got on Billy. Is it a deal?" He looked down the road as another police car rounded the corner. "Move yourself. We ain't got much time. Did you bring a camera?"

Confused by this babble of information, Deacon allowed himself to be drawn into the lee of the building. "It's in my pocket."

Terry gestured along the wall. "There's a way in through one of the windows which the old Bill don't know about. If I get you inside, they'll think you were there all the time."

"What about the policemen already in there?"

"There's just the two of them and they didn't get here till after the medics. They won't have a clue who was inside and who wasn't. It's too bloody dark, and they were more interested in keeping Walt alive. They didn't start asking questions till five minutes ago when the ambulance left." He eased aside a piece of boarding. "Okay, remember this. It were Walter what got stabbed and a psycho called Denning what did it. It's something you'd know if you'd been here awhile."

Deacon put a hand on the boy's shoulder to restrain him as he prepared to climb through the window. "Hang on a minute. I'm not a lawyer. What are these rights you're expecting me to protect? And how am I supposed to do it?''

Terry rounded on him. "Take pictures or something. Jesus, I don't know. Use your imagination." His expression changed to bitterness when Deacon gave a doubtful shake of his head. "Look, you bastard, you said you wanted to prove that Billy's life had value. Well, start by proving that Walt, Tom, me, and every other damn sod in here have value. I know it's a fucking shithole, but we've got squatters' rights over it and it's where we live. It was me as rung the police, not the police as had to come looking, so they've no call to treat us like scum." His pale eyes narrowed in sudden desperation. "Billy always said that press freedom was the people's strongest weapon. Are you telling me he was wrong?"

"Okay, you lot, out," said a harassed police constable pushing resistant bodies. "Let's have you in the light where we can see you." He grabbed at an arm and swung the man to face the doorway. "Out! Out!"

The flash of Deacon's camera startled him, and he turned openmouthed to be caught in a second flash. A sudden silence descended on the warehouse as the light popped several times in quick succession.

"They'll be mounted in a series across the front page," said Deacon, swinging the camera towards another policeman whose foot was nudging a sleeping man, "with a caption like: 'Police use concentration-camp tactics on the homeless.' " He pointed the lens at the first policeman again, zooming in for a close-up. "How about a repeat of the 'Raus! Raus! Raus!' That should stir a few worrying memories among the great and the good."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell are you, sir!" said Deacon, lowering the camera to offer a card. "Michael Deacon and I'm a journalist. May I have your name, please, and the names of the other officers present?" He took out his notebook.

A plainclothes policeman intervened. "I'm Detective Sergeant Harrison, sir. Perhaps I can be of assistance." He was a pleasant-looking individual in his thirties, solidly built and with thinning blond hair which lifted in the breeze from the warehouse doorway. His eyes creased in an amiable smile.

"You could begin by explaining what's going on here."

"Certainly, sir. We are asking these gentlemen to clear the site of an attempted murder. As the only free area is outside we have requested them to vacate the building."

Deacon raised the camera again, pointed the lens the length of the warehouse, and took a photograph of its vast interior. "Are you sure about that, Sergeant? There seems to be acres of free space in here. As a matter of interest, when did the police adopt this policy?''

"What policy's that, sir?"

"Forcing people to leave their homes when a crime's been committed inside? Isn't the normal procedure to invite them to sit in another part of the house, usually the kitchen, where they can have a cup of tea to calm their nerves?''

"Look, sir, this is hardly run-of-the-mill, as you can see for yourself. It's a serious crime we're investigating. There are no lights. Half these guys are comatose on drink or drugs. The only way we can find out what's been going on is to move everyone out and introduce some order."

"Really?'' Deacon continued to take pictures. "I thought the more usual first step was to invite witnesses to come forward and make a statement."

Briefly, the sergeant's guard slipped and Deacon's camera caught his look of contempt. "These guys don't even know what cooperation means. However-'' He raised his voice. "A man was stabbed in here in the last hour. Would anyone who saw the incident or has information about it, please step forward?" He waited a second or two, then smiled good-humoredly at Deacon. "Satisfied, sir? Now perhaps you'll let us get on."

"I saw it," said Terry, sliding out from behind Deacon's back. His eyes searched the darkness for Tom. "And I weren't the only one, though you'd think I was for all the guts the rest of them are showing."

Silence greeted this remark.

"Jesus, you're pathetic," he went on scathingly. "No wonder the old Bill treat you like dirt. That's all you know, isn't it, how to lie down in the gutter while anyone who wants to walks all over you." He spat on the floor. "That's what I think of men who'd rather let a psycho loose on the streets than stand up and be counted once in their fucking lives."

"Okay, okay," said a disgruntled voice from the middle of the crowd. "Leave off, son, for Christ's sake." Tom shouldered his way to the front and glared malignantly at Terry. "Anyone'd think you were the Archbishop of flaming Canterbury the way you're carrying on." He nodded at the sergeant. "I saw it, too. 'Ow's tricks, Mr. 'Arrison?"

The demeanor of the Detective Sergeant changed. He gave a broad grin. "Good God! Tom Beale! I thought you were dead. Your old lady did, too."

Tom's face creased into lines of disgust. "I might as well be for all she cared. She told me to bugger off the last time you got me sent down, and I never saw 'er or 'eard from 'er again."

"Bull! She was on my back for months after you were released, pressuring me to find you. Why the hell didn't you go home like you were supposed to?"

"There weren't no point," said Tom morosely. "She made it clear she didn't want me. In any case, the silly cow went and died on me. I thought I'd pay 'er a visit a couple of years ago, and there were a load of strangers in the 'ouse. I were that upset, you wouldn't believe."

"That doesn't mean she's dead, for God's sake. The council moved her into a flat six months after you scarpered."

Tom looked pleased. "Is that right? You reckon she wants to see me?"

"I'd put money on it." The DS laughed. "How about we get you home for Christmas? God only knows why, but you're probably the present your old lady's been waiting for." He turned his watch face towards the light. "Better than that, if we can get this mess sorted out PDQ, we'll have you home in time for supper. What do you say?"

"You're on, Mr. 'Arrison."

"Okay, let's start with names and descriptions of everyone involved."

"There were only the one." Tom nodded towards the sleeping man and the policeman standing over him. "That's the bastard you want. Name of Denning. 'E's out for the count at the moment because 'e wears 'isself out with 'is rages, but you want to be careful 'ow you tackle 'im. Like Terry says, 'e's a psycho and 'e's still got the knife on 'im." He cackled again and produced a cigar from one of his pockets. "We don't want no accidents, not when we're all getting along so well. I tell you what, Mr. 'Arrison, I've never been so pleased to see the old Bill in my life. 'Ere, 'ave a cigar on me."

Because he was a professional, Deacon caught the presentation on film and made a few pounds out of the picture by selling it to a photographic agency. It appeared after Christmas in one of the tabloids with the caption: havana nice cigar and a sentimental version of Tom's reunion with his wife, together with Sergeant Harrison's part in the little drama. It was a parody of the truth, glossed up by a staff reporter to stimulate good feeling for the New Year, for the facts were that Tom preferred the company of men, his wife preferred her cat, and Sergeant Harrison was furious when he discovered the cigar was part of a consignment stolen from a hijacked truck.

The whole episode left a sour taste in Deacon's mouth. It offended him that police evenhandedness should turn on the warmth that one Sergeant felt for one destitute man. This wasn't reality. Reality was Terry's shithole of a warehouse, where dereliction ruled and the manner of a man's death was the most interesting thing about him.

Terry caught up with him as he was unlocking his car door. "They're saying I have to go down the nick and make a statement."

"Is that a problem?"

"Yeah. I don't want to go."

Deacon glanced beyond Terry to the policeman who had followed him. "You can't have it both ways, you know. If you want your rights respected, then you have to show willing in return."

"I'll go if you come with me."

"There'd be no point. Lawyers are the only people allowed in interview rooms." He searched the lad's anxious face. "Why the change of heart? You were all fired up to make a statement twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, but not down the nick on my own."

"Tom'll be there."

A terrible disillusionment curled the boy's lip. "He doesn't give a toss about me or Walt. He's only interested in licking the Sergeant's arse and getting home to his Mrs. He'll drop me in the shit, quick as winking, if it suits him."

"What does he know that the rest of us don't?"

"That I'm only fourteen, and that my name's not Terry Dalton. I ran away from care at twelve and I ain't going back."

Jesus wept! "Why not? What was so bad about it?''

"The bastard in charge was a sodding shirt-lifter, that's what." Terry clenched his fists. "I swore I'd kill him if I ever got the chance, and if they send me back that's what I'm gonna do. You'd better believe that." He spoke with intense aggression. "Billy believed it. It's why he watched out for me. He said he didn't want another murder on his conscience."

Deacon relocked his car door. "Why do I get the feeling my fate is inextricably linked with Billy Blake's?"

"I don't get you."

"Does death by starvation sound familiar?" He cuffed the boy lightly across the back of the head. "There's no food in my flat," he grumbled, "and I was planning to do all my shopping this afternoon. It'll be bedlam tomorrow." He steered Terry towards the policeman. "Don't panic," he said more gently as he felt him tense, "I won't abandon you. Unlike Tom, I have no desire to see either of my wives again."

"Is that you, Lawrence? It's Michael-Michael Deacon ... Yes, as a matter fact, I do have a problem. I need a respectable lawyer to tell a couple of little white lies for me ... Only to the police." He held his mobile telephone away from his ear. "Look, you're the one who told me to get a pet so I reckon you owe me some support here ... No, it's not a dangerous dog and it hasn't bitten anyone. It's a harmless little stray ... I can't prove ownership so they look like impounding him over Christmas ... Yes, I agree. It's a shame ... That's it. All I need is a sponsor ... You will? Good man. It's the police station on the Isle of Dogs. I'll reimburse the taxi fare when you get here."

Terry was hunched in the passenger seat of Deacon's car in an East End backstreet. "You should've told him the truth. He'll blow a fuse when he gets here and finds I'm a bloke. There's no way he's going to tell lies for someone he doesn't know." He put his fingers on the door handle. "I reckon I should take off now while the going's good."

"Don't even think about it," said Deacon evenly. "I promised Sergeant Harrison you'd be at the nick by five o'clock, and you're going to be there." He offered the boy a cigarette and took one himself. "Look, no one's forcing you to make this statement, you're volunteering it, so you won't be put through the third degree unless Tom decides to drop you in it. Even then, you'll be treated with kid gloves because children aren't allowed to be interviewed without an adult present. I guarantee it won't even come to that, but if it does Lawrence will get you out."

"Yeah, but-"

"Trust me. If Lawrence says your name's Terry Dalton and you're aged eighteen, then the police will believe him. He's very convincing. He looks like a cross between the Pope and Albert Einstein."

"He's a fucking lawyer. If you tell him the truth, he'll have to pass it on to the cops. That's what lawyers do."

"No, they don't," said Deacon with more conviction than he felt. "They represent their client's interests. But, in any case, I won't tell Lawrence anything unless I have to."

Terry was grinning broadly as he left the interview room. "You coming?" he asked Deacon and Lawrence as he passed them in the waiting room on his way out.

They caught up with him in the street. "Well?" demanded Deacon.

"No problem. It never crossed their minds I wasn't who I said I was." He started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"They warned me off you and Lawrence because they reckoned you were a couple of chutney ferrets after my arse. Otherwise, why'd you be hanging around when all I was doing was making a statement?"

"God almighty!" snarled Deacon. "What did you say?"

"I said they needn't worry because I don't do that kind of stuff."

"Oh, great! So our reputations go down the pan while you come out smelling of roses."

"That's about the size of it," said Terry, retreating behind Lawrence for safety.

Lawrence chuckled joyfully. "To be honest, I'm flattered anyone thinks I still have the energy to do anything so active." He tucked his hand into Terry's arm and drew him along the pavement towards a pub on the corner. "What was the term you used? Chutney ferret? Of course I'm a very old man, and not at all in touch with modern idiom, but I do think gay is preferable." He paused in front of the pub door, waiting for Terry to open it for him. "Thank you," he said, gripping the boy's hand to steady himself as he carefully mounted the step at the entrance.

Terry threw an anguished glance over his shoulder at Deacon which clearly said-this old guy's got his hand in mine, and I think he's a fucking woofter-but Deacon only bared his teeth in a savage smile. "Serves you right," he mouthed, following them inside.

Barry Grover looked up rather guiltily as the security guard opened the cuttings' library door and stepped inside. "All right, son, let's have you out of here," said Glen Hopkins firmly. "The office is closed and you are supposed to be on holiday."

He was a blunt-spoken, retired Chief Petty Officer, and after much deliberation, and having listened to the vicious gossip about Barry that came from the women, he had decided to take the little man in hand. He knew exactly what his problem was, and it was nothing that a little practical advice and straight speaking couldn't put right. He had come across Barry's type in the Navy, although admittedly they were usually younger.

Barry covered what he was doing. "I'm working on something important," he said priggishly.

"No you're not. We both know what you're up to, and it's not work."

Barry took off his glasses and stared blindly across the room. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, yes, you do, and it isn't healthy, son." Glen moved heavily across the floor. "Listen to me, a man of your age should be out having fun, not shutting himself away in the dark looking at snapshots. Now, I've a few cards here with some addresses and telephone numbers on them, and my best advice to you is to choose the one you like and give her a ring. She'll cost a bob or two and you'll need a condom, but she'll get you up and running if you follow my drift. There's no shame in having a helping hand at the start." He placed the prostitutes' cards on the desk, and gave Barry a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "You'll find the real thing's a damn sight more fun than a boxful of pictures."

Barry blushed a fiery red. "You don't understand, Mr. Hopkins. I'm working on a project for Mike Deacon." He uncovered the pictures of Billy Blake and James Streeter. "It's a big story."

"Which explains why Mike's at the other desk helping you, I suppose," said Glen ironically, "instead of out on the town as per usual. Come on, son, no story's so important that it can't wait till after Christmas. You can say it's none of my business, but I'm a good judge of what a man's problems are and you're not going to solve yours by staying here."

Barry shrank away from him. "It's not what you think," he mumbled.

"You're lonely, lad, and you don't know how to cure it. Your mum's the nosy type-don't forget it's me who answers the phone if she rings of an evening-and if you'll forgive the straight-speaking, you'd have done better to get out from under her apron strings a long time ago. All you need is a little confidence to get started, and there's no law that says you shouldn't pay for it." His lugubrious face broke into a smile. "Now, hop to it, and give yourself the sort of Christmas present you'll never forget."

Thoroughly humiliated, Barry had no option but to pick up the cards and leave, but the shame of the experience brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked forlornly on the pavement as the front door was locked behind him. He was so afraid that Glen would quiz him on how he'd got on that he finally made his way to a phone booth and called the first number in the pile that the man had selected for him. Had he known that, in the simplistic belief that sex cured all ills, Glen habitually passed prostitutes' cards to any male colleague whom he deemed to be going through a bad patch, Barry might have thought twice about what he was doing. As it was, he assumed his virginity would become common gossip if he didn't fulfill Glen's ambitions for him, and it was more in dread of being the butt of office jokes than in anticipation of pleasure that he agreed to pay one hundred pounds for Fatima: the Turkish Delight.